


What Here Shall Miss

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to Iron Man 3: spoilers throughout.  <b>Warning</b> for description of anxiety attacks and discussion of PTSD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Here Shall Miss

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to dogeared for beta!

The panic hits the moment the elevator doors shut behind him. Tony feels his breath hitch, mutters, "son of a bitch" as his heart begins to jackrabbit in his chest, as sweat prickles at the back of his neck, dampening his shirt. His vision grays and he clumsily pulls off his jacket, lets it pool on the floor as he leans against the elegant mahogany interior of the elevator and tries to still his shaking hands. "Breathe," he mumbles to himself. "Keep breathing." He sinks to the floor, scrubbing his hands over his face, his chest constricting until he sees stars before his eyes.

The elevator pings and the doors slide open. "Good evening, sir," says Jarvis, and Tony blows out a long, uneven breath.

It's a good few moments before he can push up from the floor and stumble out of the elevator, clutching his jacket by one sleeve. "Jarvis," he murmurs, by way of greeting.

"Are you feeling quite well, sir?"

Tony laughs weakly, can hear the edge of hysteria in his voice. "You tell me." He wanders over to the couch, dropping his jacket along the way, and sits down heavily, closes his eyes to focus on one breath, then the next. His heart isn't hammering quite so hard; his elbows hurt but his hands have stopped shaking. For a long time there's nothing in the world but the sound of his breathing and the buzzing in his head, but then that clears; he feels weak and disoriented, but at least he's in control of his body again. 

"Jarvis?" Tony says.

"Sir?"

"I think I may be experiencing a touch of denial."

Pepper had warned him, had suggested that of all the places in the world they might live, the penthouse suite in Stark Tower was a spectacularly dumb choice. 

("But it's fixed up"

"And it's right below the spot where you flew into a _gaping hole in the universe_ , Tony."

"I'm totally over that."

"Really."

"Scout's honor. Over it, right as rain, shiny new - I'm saving my panic for the next megalomaniac who tries to take over the world, not the one before last.")

Pepper had given in somewhere close to round fourteen, and it had seemed like such a good idea, with Bruce five floors below, someone who could understand what had happened in scientific terms, someone who knew a few things about demons. But here Tony is with a crick in his neck from Bruce's couch and his skin clammy from sweat and he can see the spot where Loki had been beaten into the floor out of the corner of his eye.

"You tell me," he says again, under his breath. "You tell me . . . " He gets up, flexing his fingers in the hopes that will ease the ache in his wrists. "Jarvis, download the DSM, the new one that everyone's arguing about – it's still under lock and key, but you can . . ."

"Accessing the DSM now, sir," says Jarvis. "Is there something in particular you're looking for?"

"Do a sweep for recent criticisms of the book. Cross-reference by the latest research on anxiety disorders, neurology, psychopharmacology, therapeutic approaches . . . "

"2,475,613 articles, sir. Would you like me to add unique web content or limit myself to –"

"Skip it. Prioritize by symptoms." Tony can feel his heart picking up pace again and he pushes up his sleeves, runs a finger around the neck of his t-shirt. "Sleep disturbances. Nightmares." He paces back and forth. "Panic attacks – four in the last seventy-two hours."

"Does Ms. Potts know about these – "

"Nope. Between you and me, buddy. Disorientation." Tony waggles his fingers at the side of his head as if the gesture can make the right words come more easily. "Sensory processing difficulties – depth perception off; sound and sight disjointed."

"Often, sir?"

Tony shakes his head. "Once in a while. Days ago." He clicks his fingers, bumps one fist against the other because that's what he does when he's figuring out a problem, and this is just another problem, right? "Sense of time collapsing."

"In what sense, sir?"

"Then and now, muddled together – I'm in R&D but I'm falling back to earth. I'm being driven crosstown, but I'm hearing the comm. feed from weeks ago." Tony pauses, looking out over a Manhattan that seems so peaceful now, then spins on his heel. "Throw it up."

A dozen or more electronic files hover in front of him, and Tony flicks through them one by one, sending each to the trash after reading the first few lines. "PTSD, huh?"

"Your symptoms do seem to suggest it would wise to be screened for the disorder."

"Screening myself right now," Tony mutters, pulling one hand away from the other to enlarge a SHIELD file from 2009. "Coulson wanted a psych eval?"

"As I recall, Ms. Potts also felt it would be wise to seek help after the circumstances of your sojourn in Afghanistan."

"I was fine." Tony crumples the holographic file into a ball, kicks it the length of the penthouse. 

"A touch of denial, I believe you said, sir."

Tony sighs. "Touché," he says. He considers the evidence in front of him – notes that his heart is slowing, which is the opposite of what he'd have expected five minutes before – and gives a decisive nod. "Give me research on treatment, all outcomes." New files shimmer in front of him; the 3D projection of a brain. "Exposure therapy? Definitely not."

"Inter-galactic travel does seem a mite difficult to arrange, sir."

"Let's not forget the nuclear weapon." Tony spins the holographic brain, watches portions light up, then dim. "EMDR, brain-spotting, dog thera . . . _dog_ therapy?"

Jarvis projects an image of a poodle. 

"Funny." Tony flicks the image away with his thumb and forefinger. "CBT. Medication." He rubs at his forehead with the heel of one hand, remembering Harley's battery of questions.

("Are you on medication?"

"No."

"Should you be?"

"Probably.")

"I'm going to need the names of – "

"I have the top five practitioners for you, sir, ranked by order of research, years in practice, recent conference presentations."

Tony stares, unamused, at the five profiles in front of him. "They're all employed by SHIELD."

"One can imagine SHIELD agents are likely to be exposed to more than their share of trauma," Jarvis replies. "Dr. Walker was assigned to Captain Rogers' case."

"Steve's in therapy?"

"Impossible to say, sir. I can only access directives on this matter, not client files."

Tony reads Walker's profile more thoroughly. "Don't like him. What about her?" 

"Dr. Lisa Jacobs."

Tony studies her profile, tilts his head to look at her picture. "Looks right through me. Next."

"May I express my admiration for the deep consideration you're giving each candidate?"

"You may." Tony pulls a file down to eye-level. "Dr. Scott McDonald." He fixes the screen with a baleful stare. "You've got to be kidding me with that name, right?"

"Perhaps Dr. Martha Templeton?"

"Perhaps." Tony skims her profile, then goes back to read it a second time – she has all the right credentials, years on the job; likely hearing about aliens and intergalactic near-death experiences is all in a day's work. The elevator pings behind him. 

"Ms. Potts, sir." 

Tony grabs the files, squashing them into a neat ball that he throws to land on the wet-bar countertop, and turns to meet her. "Hey!"

Pepper eyes him warily. "Hey, yourself."

"How are you, how's work, how was your day, how was traffic?"

She arches an eyebrow as she steps out of her shoes. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing. Just – hung out with Bruce. No explosions this time."

"Jarvis." Pepper sets her briefcase down by the elevator doors. "Could you show me the last – "

"Override protocol 9.1," says Tony quickly, then grimaces, seeing her game. "Well played," he admits sheepishly.

Pepper smiles blithely. "As I was saying, what are you up to?"

"Maybe we could talk about this over dinner? I can get us a reservation at . . . "

"Tony."

"Yes?"

"Just show me."

Tony nods, knowing when he's beat. "Jarvis, expand files."

Pepper pads into the center of the projection. "SHIELD therapists, with level seven security clearance?" She wets her lips. "What else?"

"The original files, Jarvis."

The therapists disappear to be replaced with the articles about PTSD. Pepper looks at one, then the next, walking the circumference of the holograms, shifting the files with a fingertip. "Oh, Tony."

She doesn't sound like she pities him, which is strange, he was uncomfortably sure she would, and she doesn't sound like she's disappointed, which is good but confusing all the same. "I, uh. Well. I talked to Bruce and he – " Tony wishes he could see the contortions of his own face. "Fell asleep."

Pepper smiles just a little. "It's a lot to lay on someone."

"He fell asleep at _Bern_ , okay? Before the sex! I couldn't even keep him awake long enough to recount past triumphs in a thoroughly narcissistic fashion."

"I feel terrible for you," Pepper deadpans.

"But, okay, afterwards, I came back up here and – well, I had another of those . . . spells . . . and – "

"Spells?"

"Yes."

"Are you from the nineteenth century?"

"Episodes."

"Tony."

"Anxiety attacks!"

"Better."

"And I decided that I should just – bite the bullet, as it were. Figure some things out." Tony spreads his hands. "I'm supposed to be okay – we got the bad guys, we saved the world, I no longer have a team of drones at my disposal, we both survived, it's good, right? And yet I still keep falling to pieces at the drop of a hat, and – "

"Tony," Pepper says crossing the room to take his face between her hands. "You're okay."

"Definitely not. PTSD. Sure thing."

"So you know, now. And you can go see – "

"Dr. Martha Templeton," supplies Jarvis.

" – Dr. Templeton, and figure out the rest."

Tony loops his arms around Pepper's waist, rests his forehead against hers. "I'm crazy."

"No more than usual."

"My body's not doing what it should, and the circuitry in my brain needs so much rewiring, and it's my _brain_ , Pep, and – "

"It was your heart before. And you figured that out just fine."

"Sadly my brain doesn't need an electromagnet so much as a – "

"Shhhhh." Pepper nudges a chaste kiss to his mouth, which is pretty fabulous, and derails a lot of Tony's overactive thinking. "There are people who can help. Remember that lesson?" She smiles wryly. "Team work?"

"Well, it's not like that got me out of a jam lately." He smiles at her tentatively, and his heart doesn't hurt right now, and his breathing's steady, and he loves this woman a whole hell of a lot. "You're seriously not freaked out?"

She shakes her head. "No."

"It could be a while before I'm fixed up again."

"I don't care."

"I'll probably do some really stupid things along the way."

Pepper smiles at his attempts to faze her. "We've dealt with broken and stupid before. On both our parts."

Tony can't remember when Pepper was broken and stupid, but that's probably because he's broken and stupid with affection right now, and he leans in to kiss her properly, because the way she sighs into his mouth, the way she softens against him, the way she nips at his bottom lip makes anything seem possible. "Hey," he whispers as they break apart. "You wanna see my etchings?"

Pepper laughs, and hugs him hard. "I'd like nothing better," she says, pulling back and catching at his hand, tugging him along with her. 

"Jarvis. Make an appointment for me with – "

"Tomorrow morning at 10.30am, sir. Dr. Templeton forwarded some paperwork to complete before your meeting."

"Great. Fill in what you can, okay? I'll be, uh, . . . out later."

The hologram disappears, leaving nothing but a sweeping view of Manhattan, and Tony glances down at the cityscape below, at the shattered architecture of a place he helped save. How many people down there are broken, he wonders. How many are making stupid choices; how many are grasping at a little hope. Maybe this is exactly where he belongs, amid a million people no different from himself.

"Tony." Pepper pulls at his hand.

"I'm with you," he says, smiling, and his heart beats steadily without an arc reactor to keep it in check, and his mind whirls happily at the simple touch of Pepper's fingertips against his.


End file.
